


I'm Going Slightly Mad

by nidavellir



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Hugs, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-08 03:19:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16421387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nidavellir/pseuds/nidavellir
Summary: Being a demon comes with certain psychological issues; fear of abandonment is practically a job requirement.Now, there is only one person that Crowley is scared of losing. Once, during the Nonpocalypse, he almost did. No wonder the moment is haunting his dreams.Or: Crowley is having nightmares and being an angsty gay, and his angel has to step in and stop the silly demon from worrying so much.





	I'm Going Slightly Mad

**Author's Note:**

> It's the end of my first semester, I have zero sanity left and I finished this at 1 am. But aren't those the best kind of fanfics?  
> So yeah, I totally have a thing for Aziraphale comforting Crowley and the other way around. I love myself some angsty gay celestials. Also, all my Aziraphale/Crowley fanfictions have titles that are also titles of Queen songs because I just can't help myself- it's a thing now.   
> Anyway, I hope y'all enjoy this!

_ A burning bookshop. Crackling, smouldering, pages curling with heat. Pages of books that had been loved, that had been cared for with precision. Even shelves that had not yet been entirely claimed by the fire were scorched and blackened by the blistering heat raging around them. Not even the bibles were spared. _

_ When Crowley burst in, fueled by such desperation that the door was lifted from its hinges, he looked around him, frenzied, eyes blind with fear. After one panicked breath that filled his throat with smoke, he decided this was a good time not to need lungs. His body knew there was no use in arguing with him. “Aziraphale!” he yelled, stepping forward through the flames. Having spent a lot of time in a place far more hot and deadly, the fire didn’t scare him- even as his very human skin blistered in an attempt to convince him that touching fire was, in fact, not recommended, he stumbled onwards. “Angel! You bloody idiot! Where are you?” Right when he got to the shelves of Oscar Wilde and Henry James, the demon turned his head sharply. Was that…? Did he hear something? There _ _  it was, again, a sort of soft whimper that might as well have been imagined amidst the deafening crackling and blazing of the fire, that might have been part of the building’s pained groaning and sighing as it  was being slowly consumed by fire- but maybe it wasn’t.  _

_ Determined, Crowley turned to the sound, ignoring the heat that singed the hairs at the back of his neck, ignoring the smoke that was seeping into every inch of his body and weighing down his clothes, and he made his way towards it. Behind his sunglasses, his eyes held an unblinking stare of determination- but underneath his shirt, his semi-existing heart was beating so fast with worry and fear that it made him sick. “Aziraphale!” he shouted again, but his panicked voice was quickly drowned out by all the noise around him; the sound didn’t carry far. A burning desk in front of him was suddenly persuaded to reside elsewhere as Crowley made his way through smouldering bookshelves. A huge chunk of the ceiling, that had been dutifully holding on to the rest of the building as long as it could, was overpowered by the flames and crashed down in front of the demon, who blessed loudly and threw himself out of the way. _

_ As he stood upright once more, Crowley heard it again. A whimper, or a whisper, or a dying breath; but it sounded very much like his name. Panic overcame him, he threw all caution out of the window and, breathing heavily (at this point, his body was rather indignant about the whole situation and thought that the demon ought to make up his mind- lungs or no lungs?), he scrambled over a pile of smouldering wooden boards. At the end of the bookcase that had once been filled with classic science-fiction, Crowley turned. _

_ Peeking out from around the corner, he saw something that made him stop dead in his tracks. Something that made his blood run cold and hot all at the same time, something that made all thoughts in his head merge into a garbled mist until he couldn’t think anything at all. His mind went blank. His legs felt weak.  _

_ The tip of a wing. The edges singed and scorched. A single white feather let loose and floated towards the ground, ash and embers drifting around it.  _ _   
_ _ When Crowley slowly moved towards it, a larger part of the wing became visible through the smoke. There were holes burnt in it, and it was stained with something- dark, almost-black. The blood of an angel. _

 

Crowley jerked awake from what was supposed to be a peaceful power nap, and immediately fell from his couch, tangled in a blanket. Sweating, shivering, breathing rapidly, and with his heart once more hammering inside his chest, he slowly released himself from the tangle of fuzzy material and threw the blanket aside angrily. He did not, however, get up from the floor. Instead, he took a deep breath, and lowered his head in his hands, wiping away the cold sweat from his brow. It didn’t help. A cold and heavy weight had settled in his stomach.

_T’was just a dream, you moron_ , he thought to himself, his mind still sluggish with sleep. It didn’t convince him at all that something wasn’t dreadfully wrong. That's the problem with the mind; no matter how much you _know_ something is the case, it can come to a completely different conclusion- and refuse to be persuaded by reason. Crowley knew, he _knew_ , that Aziraphale hadn't died in that fire, that right now his bookshop was still there. That the angel was restoring his original collection to the point that there were once more shelves filled with Oscar Wilde and Henry James, there were bookcases entirely reserved for old and special editions of religious texts again. That things looked almost the same as they once had. He knew this. But his mind was not convinced, and his body felt horrible; cold, heavy, a nervous energy pulsing through him. Crowley was scared. What a damn night.

He got up, and promptly hit his knee on the table. “Ow! Fuck!” he exclaimed, and angrily kicked an empty bottle with such conviction that it shattered against the wall, sending shards of glass flying everywhere. His temper was ever so helpful. Crowley glowered at the pieces of glass and pulled a splinter from his cheek as he put on his coat. “When I get home,” he said darkly, eyeing the apartment, “This room better be fit for a fucking king.” And he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

His houseplants trembled and bloomed. The shards of glass reassembled themselves into a bottle that relocated itself to a closet. The furniture became cleaner than it'd been in years. And just to be sure, a bottle of Crowley's favourite whiskey appeared on the table. It had a little blue ribbon tied around it.

 

Aziraphale was standing over his desk with his eyebrows etched into a deep frown of concentration. He pushed up the reading glasses that he really didn't need, and straightened his back with a low grown- he really ought to sit down, he thought, but he didn't. The angel was unable to sit still for long when he was having a look at his books. At the moment, Aziraphale was studying a particularly lovely version of Dorian Gray. It was illustrated, annotated, and had a beautiful cover of a boy who looked suspiciously like the angel himself. Ineffable. Coincidental, really; it wasn't like he had encouraged any infatuation. A human with a crush on an angel? That really would be improper.

Aziraphale sighed wistfully as he thought fondly of his old friend Oscar. (And friends were really all they had ever been, he thought sternly- although Oscar had certainly tried to tempt him into more. One kiss was all he'd ever gotten.) Humans really could be extraordinary, the angel mused, as he put the book back on the counter, moving on to the next one of his pile of latest acquisitions. Just as he picked up a spectacularly beautiful book about Norse mythology, the shop bell rang and the front door opened and closed with a click that echoed in the bookshop's nightly silence. Aziraphale first started at the sound and then frowned worriedly. Firstly, it was three in the morning, and secondly, his door had been locked a second ago. Slowly, he put down the book and stepped behind a bookcase, miracling a pen that wasn't a pen into his hands. He'd had unwanted visitors before, demons that had tried to discorporate him in the rudest manner. They'd never succeeded, obviously, but they had damaged some of his books. Aziraphale would  _ not  _ let that happen again, he thought as he tightened his grip on the Not Pen. Not now that he had restored so much of his original collection, and added some extraordinary books along the way. His eyes narrowed as he thought of mythology and Dorian Gray, and a fierce protectiveness rose up within him. 

He heard footsteps approach. He took a deep breath as they drew closer. Just when they had almost reached the bookcase that Aziraphale was hiding behind, he jumped out, pointed the Not Pen that had now turning into a large flaming sword at the intruder, and shouted, “If you  _ touch  _ my books, you're  _ dead _ !” 

Crowley yelped and stumbled backwards, knocking off his own sunglasses as he tripped ungraciously over a vase and fell hard against the wall. “Ow!” he moaned, rubbing his spine. His yellow eyes were wide with surprise. “For hell's sake, angel, I'm not touching your books! I learned that lesson centuries ago.”

Aziraphale loweredhis sword, apparently just as confused as the demon. “Crowley! What the devil are you playing at, sneaking in here at night?”

“Hardly sneaking in, I just came through the front door, didn't I? Would you mind not pointing that sword at me?”

Aziraphale tossed the sword over his shoulder, and a pen landed on his desk. “Yes, well, it's the middle of the night!” he said rather pointedly, “and you didn't call ahead! I've had intruders before, I was expecting trouble.” Crowley sighed, pushing himself away from the wall. Incidentally, this also meant he stepped into the light. Aziraphale gasped.

“What's happened to you, my dear?”

“What?” Crowley snarled, instantly regretting his tone. The tension from his nightmare had not yet left his body, and he felt stressed. He felt tired. He'd almost forgotten that he came there to be reassured.

The angel, on his part, had stepped closer to Crowley to take a better look at him. He looked horrible, Aziraphale thought; he was deadly pale, his skin looked almost translucent,  and there were dark circles under his yellow eyes, which were hooded with exhaustion. And what was… the angel reached out to wipe away a trickle of blood from Crowley's cheek. If Crowley leaned into his touch a bit, well, no need to make a big deal out of that- he did just dream about the angel's death. 

“What did you do, dear boy?”

His hand lingered on the demon's cheek, and when he pulled away, the cut was gone. Crowley smiled, just a bit, before yawning. “Nothing,” he muttered, “It's just been a long night.” “Crowley,” Aziraphale said sternly, “What's going on? Why do you look like you haven't slept in decades?”

“Decades? That's a bit crude, you know I slept through most of the seventies.”

One look from the angel told him this was not the time for jokes. “Alright, alright, I just-” Crowley interrupted his own words with a sharp intake of breath when he spotted something on the desk behind Aziraphale.

A book. No surprise there. But it wasn't an ordinary book; it was burned, it had scorchmarks, it was blackened by fire.

 

_ A burning bookshop. Pages curling with heat.  _

_ A single white feather.  _

 

Crowley stared at the book, unblinking, and beads of cold sweat gathered on his suddenly ashen face. “Are you alright, dear?” the angel asked, worried. It sounded very distant to Crowley, very unreal. It was like he was back in his dream, he could feel the heat in the back of his neck, he could see the flames in the corner of his eyes, he could hear Aziraphale's dying breath-

Crowley didn't realize that his own breathing had become quick and ragged, heaving and almost whining, until his vision blurred and his legs gave out. He crumpled to the floor, mind filled with fire and loneliness, and his heart was beating so loudly it felt like his entire body was pulsating. “Zira,” was all he could say, and it came out in a whimper as hot tears streaked his ice-cold face. 

“Crowley!” he heard, but it barely registered. Nothing did.

Until, through the mist of his dream, something clear and real and tangible reached out to him, and he felt a soft, warm hand cupping his cheek. Like before. Like so many times before.

Aziraphale, healing the cut from the broken glass.

Aziraphale, brushing Crowley’s jaw with his knuckles after a long night of drinking.

Aziraphale, greeting him with a heartfelt  _ hello, dear _ and a kiss on his cheek after they hadn't seen each other in half a century.

Aziraphale, holding his face in his hands when he'd been so upset about 20 years of obligatory torturing in Hell.

Aziraphale.

And once again, as he snapped out of it, he had to tell himself that it was  _ just a bloody dream get over it don't be such a damn idiot-  _

His thoughts were interrupted when Aziraphale hugged him, held him very tightly, with his nose nuzzled in the crook of his neck. “It's okay, it's alright,” he whispered, his hand threading through Crowley's tousled hair. “Ssh, take a deep breath.”

He did. He felt better. Aziraphale pressed a soft kiss to the demon’s neck, cool lips against overheated skin. Crowley shivered, but closed his eyes and relaxed into the angel's touch, allowing his mind to be distracted by sweet and comforting words. 

“I'm here, Crowley, everything's okay. You're okay.”

The angel finally pulled away, looked at his friend for a second with eyes that we're still a bit scared and startled, and then sat next to him against the wall. Crowley allowed his head to rest on Aziraphale’s shoulder. The angel let him, inhaling deeply before breathing out in a sigh. He glanced at Crowley.

“Are you alright now?”

Crowley nodded. Now that the worst was over, Aziraphale seemed a bit more hesitant about physical touch, not certain how much the demon would allow him. Tentatively, he brought his hand up and slowly carressed Crowley's unkempt hair again. Crowley didn't seem to mind in the slightest. 

“Want to tell me what happened?”

His friend was silent for a bit.

“Had a dream,” he then mumbled.

“About what?”

“About before the Nonpocalypse, when the shop was on fire. Except it was different now.” He hesitated. “You were-” his voice broke, and he cleared his throat. “Yeah. You were, er… your wings… the fire...” He stopped.

“Oh,  _ Crowley _ ,” Aziraphale sighed softly, and pulled the demon closer. Crowley hugged him with one arm, burying his face in the angel's jumper. Aziraphale pressed a kiss into his hair, and Crowley closed his eyes, surrounded by angelic warmth and love and comfort, surrounded by the angel's smell of peppermint and old books. He breathed it in. He brought one hand to Aziraphale's falling and rising chest, spreading out his fingers, and he felt as well as heard the angel's heartbeat.

“Alive,” he whispered, and his hand crept up to Aziraphale's collarbones, his neck, his shoulder blades, pushing aside cloth just to be able to feel his bare skin. His warm, soft, alive skin. Thin fingers prodded around under the angel's jumper.

“Of course I am, my dear.”

They were both pretending that this whole situation, with hugging and kissing and touching, was completely normal, nothing out of the ordinary, because at the moment neither of them really cared. Aziraphale just wanted to calm his demon, and was frankly glad that he was finally allowed into his personal space which Crowley was usually so antsy about. Crowley had never realized how close he really wanted to be to his angel, had always remained at a distance to keep up appearances. The few times they had touched had left him confused, needing more but wanting less out of fear. Now that he realized that he was more afraid of never touching the angel again, he clung to him, letting his touch linger. 

“Angel, I need you around forever,” he said, and his voice was far steadier than he'd expected at this bold declaration of, er, care. 

“I will be,” Aziraphale assured him, somewhat awkwardly caressing the demon's back. 

“Can I… that is, would you perhaps… could I sleep here?” Crowley stammered, suddenly flushing red at the situation and his own request. Aziraphale just smiled softly and nodded. 

Crowley didn't really remember how they got from where they were sitting to the bedroom- he suspected a small miracle on the angel's part. He didn't really care. 

All he cared about was the fact that he was covered with warm blankets which instantly made him very sleepy, and that Aziraphale was next to him under the same blankets, and that when he curled up against the angel, resting his head on Aziraphale's chest, there were no protests. There was just an arm drawing him closer. Crowley realized he wouldn't mind doing this every night. Aziraphale was thinking much the same. A new clause was added to the Arrangement.

After just one content sigh, Crowley was fast asleep. And if he dreamt of the angel that was currently softly murmuring sweet nothings into his ear, it was certainly not a nightmare.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, fellow Good Omens fan who is filling the hole in their heart with loads of fanfiction while impatiently waiting for the show to come out. Yes, I know your soul. I'm doing it as well.   
> Hope you liked it! Comments are always appreciated :)


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